Pool Break
by Mercaque
Summary: Chase, Cameron and Foreman pick at each other while playing pool. Set in the early second season after Acceptance. Some events of the second season, such as those of The Mistake, Hunting, and especially Euphoria, have not happened yet.


**Title:** Pool Break

**Author:** Mercaque

** Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Summary:** Chase, Cameron and Foreman pick at each other while playing pool. Set in the early second season after "Acceptance"; some events of the second season, such as those of "The Mistake," "Hunting," and especially "Euphoria," have not happened yet.

**Disclaimer:** House M.D. and its characters are property of FOX, David Shore, etc.

** Author's Notes:** Feedback, comments and criticism are highly appreciated. I'm still not sure how close I got to the pre-"Sleeping Dogs Lie" dynamic among the Cottages, but I had fun trying.

"All right. There's three of us, so we'll play cutthroat rules." Foreman rolled the multicolored pool balls back and forth in the triangular rack, competitiveness already firing in his dark eyes. "There are fifteen balls, right? Chase, you get one through five. Cameron, six through ten, and I'll take the rest. The goal is to knock everybody else's balls off the table. When all yours are gone, you're out of the game. Last person left is the winner. Make sense?"

"Sounds good," Chase said brightly, hoping to conceal his near-total lack of experience with the game.

Cameron just smiled. "Bring it on."

It was one o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, not a time of day normally associated with leisure. But the three doctors had just run a brutal three-day diagnostic marathon, only barely scraping together a diagnosis in time to save their latest patient. Grueling, but well worth it to see her sitting up healthily in bed, awake and alert and surrounded by well-wishing friends.

House, on the other hand, had _not_ been smiling when he announced he'd "rather treat Vogler for crotch lice" than see Cameron, Foreman or Chase for the rest of the day. Fortunately, they knew their boss well enough to recognize that they'd generously been given the afternoon off; Cameron had suggested they unwind at a nearby bar, and her colleagues had promptly agreed.

And thus she, Foreman and Chase were now staking out a pool table in a dusty little bar nearby the hospital, a place that smelled comfortably of wood and beer and residual cigarette smoke. A bright cool breeze poured in through a nearby window, carrying upon it lively snatches of conversation from people outside. By contrast, the bar itself was empty but for a few stalwart customers – a few fiftyish men with wrinkles hardened into their ruddy faces, nursing highballs and crabbing at each other about sports. Every now and then, they would glance with wary fascination at the unlikely young trio of doctors who had invaded their stomping grounds.

Chase, leaning back against the wall next to the window, had taken off his paisley tie and rolled up the sleeves of his green-and-yellow shirt. A slow smile spread across his face as the fresh breeze rippled over his skin and sailed through his shaggy blond hair. Might as well enjoy the weather, he thought, because his chances of winning the pool game were slim to none. Not that it particularly mattered. Zero expectation of winning meant zero disappointment – he could just sit back and watch Foreman and Cameron gear up for their apparent death match.

Foreman sharpened and re-sharpened his pool cue, his dark brown eyes glued to the table as if watching an invisible game already in progress. He was already focused on winning; no surprise, Chase thought dryly, that _that _would be his idea of fun. Like him, Foreman had removed his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his maroon shirt, his sturdy forearms giving way to surprisingly nimble fingers. Chase stared, a little longer than was entirely subtle, at the tattoo punctuating Foreman's wrist – circular, intricate and completely contrary to its owner's straightlaced personality. Chase didn't yet have the nerve to ask about it. Maybe he'd risk it if Foreman showed signs of mellowing after finishing his beer.

Cameron, meanwhile, had thrown her brown hair back in a loose ponytail, having abandoned her lab coat and restrictive black vest back at the hospital. Her short-sleeved floral blouse ruffled in the wind as she lifted a bright green margarita to her lips. It was nice to see her in a social setting, Chase thought. Her work persona could be so damned needy and uptight, but when she shed it, she could be almost pleasant. Although she hadn't relaxed completely yet: like Foreman, she appeared to be contemplating the pool table with intense determination. But where Foreman was bold, she was methodical; the slight furrow of her angular, delicate eyebrows was the only hint of the gears turning in her head.

Foreman tossed her the white cue ball, startling her out of her reverie, and said with mock gallantry, "Ladies first."

"Hmph." Cameron looked vaguely offended, but took the ball without complaint and placed it firmly on the table. She leaned down and arranged her pool stick carefully between her slender fingers, moving it back and forth and back and forth as she attempted to line up the perfect shot.

Chase's limited pool experience did not include waiting interminably for someone to shoot; he glanced quizzically at Foreman. "Does it normally take this long?"

"Ssh!" she hissed. Behind her, a highly amused Foreman shook his head no.

At last, Cameron's cue stick shot forward confidently, and the carefully arranged balls flew apart with a satisfying smack. The 4-ball rolled into a corner pocket.

A triumphant grin broke across her face. "Ha!"

"Hey, that was mine!" Chase realized belatedly.

Foreman nodded to himself, faint surprise lifting his eyebrow. "Nice."

"Just you watch," Cameron murmured, taking careful aim for Foreman's 12-ball. There was another long breezy silence while they waited for her to shoot, and when she did, she aced it cleanly.

"Well, damn," Foreman remarked, "aren't you the little pool shark?"'

She put her hands on her hips. "I don't recall asking anybody to underestimate me."

"Whoa! Okay," he backpedaled, lifting his hands.

"Besides," she continued crisply, "I thought _you _were supposed to be the big hustler."

Cameron was too busy scanning the table for her next shot to see Foreman's smile curdle slightly; Chase noticed, though, and sipped uncomfortably at his soda as he grappled for a nice, non-patronizing way to remark on it. Finally, he settled on: "Come on, you know he's a crap liar. Remember that top secret affair with the drug rep?"

Foreman snorted and rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Chase, I knew I could count on you."

Cameron, meanwhile, giggled and took her next shot. She'd hit just a little too hard, though, and sent the cue ball flying into the side pocket along with Chase's 1-ball. "Damn," she muttered, retrieving both and setting them on the table.

"Hey," Foreman admonished her, "whoever goes next places the cue ball."

An impish smile pulled at her lips. "And which one of you would that be?"

Chase and Foreman looked at each other, each silently daring the other to ask first.

"Evens or odds?" Foreman finally asked.

"Not that again," Chase groaned. "Fine. Evens."

They thrust out fingers – Chase one, Foreman two. Odds.

"Tell me again why I keep picking that?" Chase lamented.

Foreman took the cue ball with a triumphant grin. "Just luck, I guess."

Chase rolled his eyes, and Cameron gave him a sympathetic look from across the table.

"He's insufferable, isn't he?" she laughed.

"Humph," Foreman grunted. He set the white ball decisively in front of Cameron's 6-ball, which was only inches away from the side pocket. The shot was child's play, and Foreman made it easily. He cocked a mischievous eyebrow at Cameron, who grimaced in return.

"Thought you didn't want anybody going easy on you," he said.

Her girlish features lit up with laughter. "Touché."

On his next shot Foreman struck powerfully, but his aim was off, and he succeeded only in forcefully rearranging the balls on the table. His mouth tightened a little, but he ceded his turn to Chase with no more than a rueful smile.

Chase took a deep breath and bent over, trying to maneuver the pool cue between his inexperienced fingers, and it vaguely occurred to him that it had been more than a decade since he'd last tried this. He'd been on the other side of the planet at the time, he thought with a dim chuckle, playing hooky from school and hoping Mum would be sober enough to be furious at him for it. She hadn't.

Cameron and Foreman were looking at him expectantly, and thankfully neither seemed to suspect the morbid turn his thoughts had taken. Chase shook himself a little to clear away the memories and then took his best shot, pleasantly surprising himself when he actually hit the cue ball, and even moreso when it went rolling a respectable distance across the table. It only clinked against his own 2-ball, and that was far better than he'd thought he'd...

"Come on, play for real!" Cameron burst out.

"I was," he muttered, embarrassment rising to his cheeks.

"She's just trash talking," Foreman chuckled. He nodded towards her half-finished margarita. "You're a mean drunk, Cameron."

"I'm not even close to drunk," she protested, and leaned over the table. Again they waited for a seeming eternity while she painstakingly moved her pool stick back and forth.

Foreman looked over at Chase and asked quietly, "You played a lot before?"

Chase snorted. "What do you think?"

"Hey, for all I know, _you're_ the pool shark," Foreman shrugged.

"I wish," he grumbled.

Foreman narrowed his eyes. "Well, just remember. Cameron's the real enemy."

Cameron looked up at him balefully, and then her attention went right back to the pool table. A long silence followed until finally she drew back her cue to shoot. Foreman's 15-ball went down.

"Damn," he muttered.

She took aim for Chase's 3-ball next; he gulped his soda nervously. If she made it, he'd be down to three. She pulled back her stick to strike.

"You know, it was awfully nice of House to let us out of work early," Chase mused idly. "Although he probably just needed a hooker fix."

Cameron's eyebrow twitched.

"Yeah." Foreman snorted. "Wonder if he's got a regular. Poor woman."

"More like poor Jimmy and his pocket protectors," Chase replied.

Foreman spat his beer; Cameron squawked and missed her shot completely.

Chase feigned sorrow. "Oh, too bad."

She retreated from the table, indignant shock still coloring her cheeks. "You're evil!"

Foreman clapped Chase on the shoulder. "Nice work."

"That really wasn't funny," Cameron continued.

"Yeah, neither is getting knocked out before your second turn," Chase replied.

"Psychological warfare," Foreman murmured absently, his dark eyes focused intently on his shot.

"Thanks, General Patton," she groaned, rolling her eyes, and then her attention fell to Chase's clear, bubbly drink. "Maybe you're the mean drunk here. Is that a vodka tonic?"

"No." Chase smiled, but shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Just club soda."

"What, you're not even drinking? Now that's an unfair advantage."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I need all the help I can get. Besides, it's a little early in the day for me," he answered. Fuck. Now Foreman was looking at him curiously. But when he saw he'd been caught, he quickly dropped his dark eyes back to the pool table.

"So what do you think _I_ am, some kind of lush?" Cameron demanded, holding up her nearly-  
empty glass.

Chase grinned. "I'm sure that's the least of your naughty habits."

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" Her smirk faded as the white cue ball suddenly rocketed around the table after a powerful shot from Foreman. It bounced off one side and then the other, ruthlessly knocked Cameron's 9-ball into a corner pocket, and rolled to rest right in front of her 8.

Foreman grinned predatorily and took aim. The wood stick surged confidently between his dark fingers, and the 8-ball dropped off the table.

"Chase, he's killing us," Cameron whined.

"No," Chase corrected her, "he's killing _you_."

She snorted. "You're so helpful."

"It's what I'm here for," Chase answered drolly. Still, he thought, she had a point. Foreman was on a roll, and the slightly fanatical gleam in his eye wasn't reassuring. If he kept going at this rate, he'd trounce them both.

Chase kept his face calm, sipped at his soda, and waited. When Foreman drew back his cue, he said casually: "Speaking of Wilson, he's got weed, you know."

Foreman's pool stick scratched the table, and the white cue ball bounced away awkwardly. "Oh my God," he groaned, dropping his head.

"Psychological warfare, huh?" Cameron laughed.

Foreman looked up with a rueful shake of his head. "I cannot believe that worked."

"Pays to be in the loop," Chase said archly.

Cameron turned a curious gaze in his direction. "You mean you weren't making that up?"

"Nope," he replied. "I know. Wilson. Of all people, right?"

"You party with him or something?" Foreman asked.

"No," Chase laughed. "He has it for his patients, for medicinal purposes. Or at least that's what the nurses tell me."

"He could get them arrested," Foreman murmured disapprovingly, then nodded at Chase. "Your move."

Chase surveyed the table and discovered, to his shock, that he was currently winning – only one of his balls had been knocked off the table. Foreman had three left, and Cameron was down to two. Chase smirked to himself. Well, if his opponents were just going to kill each other, maybe he didn't need to be particularly good at this game after all. He leaned over to shoot, targeting the only thing he had even the faintest hope of hitting, which was Foreman's 14-ball.

Meanwhile, Cameron's faintly pained voice spoke behind him. "You don't think cancer patients should be allowed some relief? Chemo is... it's really brutal."

"I didn't say I _want _them to be arrested," Foreman replied, "but it's still illegal."

"Well, that's inhumane." She frowned. "And besides, didn't you sell drugs at one point?"

Genuine irritation crept into his voice. "No."

Chase poked his head up, more interested in where this was going than taking his futile shot. "I thought you used to grind up oregano and pass that off as pot."

Foreman cocked a withering eyebrow. "Last time I checked, the government hasn't declared a war on spice racks."

Chase snorted. "Point taken."

Cameron, however, barged ahead. "Well, how is that any different?"

"It's completely different," Foreman insisted. "I wasn't getting anybody hooked on anything, just parting fools from their money."

"Oh, so anybody who buys pot is a fool?" Cameron scoffed. "Come on! When I was in college, half the kids..."

"...Thought they were such badasses scoring weed off a real live black kid? Yeah, I know the type," he interrupted tartly. "Bet their parents loved paying for my SAT prep classes."

Cameron rolled her eyes. "Congratulations, you really showed whitey who's boss."

"As they say," Foreman replied philosophically, "don't get mad, get ahead."

"Explains a lot," she muttered. "Chase, are you going to take your turn or what?"

He gave them both pointed looks. "Well, I don't know, Cameron. For some reason I was having trouble concentrating."

She laughed. "Sorry."

"You're one to complain," Foreman grumbled.

Chase grimaced, deciding his odds of scoring weren't going to improve with time, and took his shot. He'd given it more power this time, but still hadn't aimed too well; the cue ball traced a quick, useless trajectory around the table before rolling to a stop. Oh well.

"My turn," Cameron said brightly, and leaned down.

"You know what's funny about the oregano thing?" Foreman mused. "I actually had a few repeat customers. Now that's stupid."

"Well in that case, maybe there _should _be a war on spice racks," Chase answered, and they laughed. "Are you sure you weren't selling the real thing? That's a pretty powerful placebo effect."

"Not unless the grocery store was stocking something it shouldn't have been." He offered a sly grin. "I guess the country clubs had access to the really good shit, huh?"

Chase rolled his eyes. Foreman was just as nosy as Cameron. Or maybe he'd just decided if _his _background was fair game, so was everyone else's.

"My dad would know, I wouldn't," Chase answered, his voice pricking defensively. "Seminary, vow of poverty and all that, remember?"

Foreman tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't see how poverty is a virtue."

"It's not a virtue of itself, it's..." Chase began. An incomprehensible world, of clinking glasses and heady perfume and his father's cool wheedling voice, floated momentarily through his mind, and he shook his head in frustration. "It's to get rid of things that might keep you from virtue."

"Don't you think there's virtue in bettering yourself? In earning what you have?"

"Well, who says going after money is the way to do that?" Chase argued.

Foreman's face clouded over. "Only someone who's never scraped the bottom could say something like that."

He nearly stamped his foot in frustration. "That's not what I meant. There's nothing wrong with security. It's just that... money, or the pursuit of money, changes people. On some level you're always selling yourself. And anybody who thinks they'll be the same person afterwards is deluding themselves."

As the words were leaving his mouth, Chase cursed himself for babbling so freely – indeed, he didn't even have the excuse of alcohol his colleagues did. But to his fascination he'd managed to silence Foreman, who wore a faintly strangled expression. It dissipated quickly, but Chase realized he'd struck a nerve.

"Guess everyone makes their choices," Foreman finally murmured with a philosophic finality.

The conversation ground awkwardly to a halt, until at last Chase supplied an uneasy joke: "I dropped out of the seminary anyway."

They laughed, Cameron just a little too loudly. Her next shot was wild and sloppy, and the white cue ball only flailed off the side of the pool table. "Your turn, Foreman."

He nodded and, as he was about to lean over, flashed a faintly contrite look in Chase's direction. Probably the closest he'd ever get to an apology, but it was better than nothing.

Meanwhile, Cameron was smiling at him. Her glass was empty, and she was definitely tipsy. "That's one thing I never got about you, Chase," she said a little too loudly for comfort. "How do you go from being a priest to being a doctor?"

"Easy," he replied. "You go to medical school."

Cameron frowned. "That's not what I meant."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Chase said, his voice edged with the faintest hint of steel. He should've just kept his mouth shut and let Foreman win the money discussion if his ramblings were going to open up _this _line of conversation. At least Cameron hadn't brought up...

"Your dad's a doctor, isn't he?" she asked. "Did that have something to do with it?"

Wonderful, he thought with an eyeroll. "Yeah, saved me heaps of money on textbooks."

"Can you not make jokes for two seconds?" she demanded. "I mean, were you trying to follow in his footsteps or something?"

Chase froze, hovering somewhere between yes and no, each answer equally true and equally repellant. Even a firm "none of your business" would likely just provoke her to ask more and earn him one of those curious looks from Foreman...

"Hey, Cameron," Foreman finally cut in, "what about you? What made you become a doctor?"

Irritation flooded her face; his attempt to divert the conversation was painfully unsubtle. "We weren't talking about me."

"Well, maybe we should," he said evenly. "Turnabout is fair play."

"All right." She put her hands on her hips, primly rising to the challenge. "What do you want to know?"

Chase exhaled, and the knot in his chest loosened marginally. He'd swung from severe annoyance with Foreman to tremendous relief; he wasn't sure if he ought to hang out with the man more often, or never again. Either way, he couldn't resist pushing the conversation a little farther in this new direction. "She hasn't drunk enough to answer the good questions."

Cameron rounded on him in annoyance. "You probably wouldn't know a good question if it tied you up and spanked you. But then you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?"

Foreman bit down on an astonished laugh. "Shit, Cameron."

"The way you're all so fascinated with one little – and I do mean little – chapter in my dating life," Chase shot back, "I'd say you know your way around a ball gag. Either that, or you wish you did."

"Hey, leave me out of this. I couldn't care less about your adventures with the bondage queen," Foreman protested. "Besides, I think I've got a question Cameron can answer without the help of Captain Morgan."

"Oh yeah?" Cameron asked warily, crossing her arms.

He leaned over the table. "What's a nice, smart girl like you doing working for a bastard like House?"

Cameron's impish grin faded, her thin mouth dropping into a frown. "Why would you even ask that?"

"Why would you even ask Chase about his father?"

Not again, Chase thought, looking up sharply. Thankfully Cameron breezed past the topic.

"You think I'm weak and I'm just going to crumple because of big mean House?"

Foreman threw up his hands. "Hey, sometimes I think I 'm just going to crumple because of big mean House."

"Then I probably work for him for the same reason you do."

"And what reason would that be?" he asked, one eyebrow climbing skyward.

Cameron scowled. "Because my massive, unquenchable ego won't let me quit. How's that?"

"Funny," Foreman said dryly. "You know, considering you had the stones to ask if I was a drug dealer, I'm surprised you can't answer a simple question."

"Fine." Cameron put down her empty glass and leaned forward clumsily. "I work for House because he's brilliant. Because he saves lives." Her face and her voice took on a distant cast. "Because he understands what suffering means, but he understands it in a way that's totally different from anything I've ever heard of. He challenges me on every level, intellectually and morally. And even when he frightens me, I know there is method to his madness..."

She trailed away, her eyes glazed in a half-drunk, half-morose reverie.

"You like the puzzle," Foreman murmured, nodding to himself.

Chase felt the knot in his chest tightening again, slightly repulsed that even Foreman had gotten into the House lovefest. He didn't even care to privately analyze his relationship to House, much less share with the class. So he said brightly, "Well, then you two do work for House for the same reason – big crush."

Foreman shot him an irritable look. "Quit projecting, Chase."

Cameron remained quiet, her previous tipsy boldness having soured into a liquor-fueled brooding that seemed to infect the whole table. Foreman absently traced the rim of his beer bottle, while Chase awkwardly shifted his feet.

"Is it my turn?" Cameron finally asked quietly.

Foreman blinked sharply. "Nope, it's Chase's."

They played the rest of the game in silence, the spark having gone out of their earlier spirited competition. Chase shot as poorly as ever; Foreman continued to fire off hit-or-miss attempts; and Cameron, despite her vaguely suffocating air of introspection, played well enough that she eventually knocked Chase out of the game.

"Well, it was nice playing," Chase promptly announced, shelving his pool cue.

Foreman and Cameron looked up at him with amusingly similar expressions of astonishment – "how could you?" seemed mirrored on both their faces. But Foreman nodded. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"Bye, Chase." Cameron's voice was still subdued.

"Bye." He headed out, past the men with ruddy faces, past the bar, out the door and into the sunlight and fresh air. As he walked down the street to his car, he passed by the open window that had overlooked their pool game.

Inside, Cameron and Foreman were speaking in hushed tones; it was impossible to tell if they were re-establishing some level of intimacy, or barely holding back hostilities. Chase didn't bother investing himself in a guess.

He had never asked about that tattoo. And he'd perhaps misgauged Cameron's pleasant demeanor. Chase pursed his lips and walked back to his car, wondering exactly what impression he had left rolling around in his colleagues' heads.

-fin-


End file.
